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There’s something enthralling about Gale’s refractory period, Astarion muses.
It’s been a while since he’s lain with anyone, at least of his own volition. Every bedroom encounter (and occasionally a darkened alleyway or, Gods forbid, against the side of an outhouse) has been confined to strictly one orgasm. That’s all Astarion had ever cared for. Just enough to keep them wanting. Just enough to convince hapless targets to follow him to their death.
Then, he meets Gale, and he finds himself the one now fraught with desire.
Gale is laid out on the bed beside him, his skin flushed a rather fetching red from exertion. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, the smooth line of his biceps gleaming slightly in the setting sunlight of their bedroom, the curves of his stomach stained with drying come. His hair, which he’s taken to wearing in a tidy half-bun, fans out in tangles around his head. His eyes are shut, his mouth parted slightly as he tries to regain his breath.
Astarion could stare at him forever.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, because that’s what couples do. That’s what husbands do; and Hells, if that word doesn’t send the slightest little thrill through his undead body. The concept of being able to express his affection and his desire for Gale without fear of repercussion or rebuke will never get old. There is no greater feeling than the certainty that Gale feels the same way about him.
Gale laughs weakly, blood flooding his cheeks as his eyes fly open.“Some days, I question the acuity of your judgment,” he says. “But I shan’t look a gift horse in the mouth, my love.”
Astarion feels his own ears heat up in response. Nearly a year of this, and he’s still not used to being wanted. Loved.
The sight of Gale’s affectionate smile has his own cock thickening in response. Cursing his superior elven refractory, Astarion scoots towards Gale and presses his rapidly hardening length against Gale’s thigh suggestively.
“I can’t,” Gale says apologetically. “I need at least two hours and a good cuppa before I’m ready again.”
“You don’t need to do anything,” Astarion says. “Just lie there, darling.”
Gale gives a little grunt that could possibly mean assent, or a muted “sod off kindly, now.” But Astarion knows that he will speak up if he really isn’t comfortable going any further.
That’s what they do, after all—communication. It had been a concept so wholly foreign to him. Now, it feels almost natural. How novel, Astarion marvels silently, running a singular finger down a sweat-damp, trembling calf.
His favorite time ever to finger Gale is right after sex. When he’s all loose and still wet, when that furled little hole is beautifully stretched out and dripping with Astarion’s come. He loves the way Gale tenses up deliciously around his fingers, the way his walls contract uncontrollably as he struggles to maintain his composure.
And above all, Astarion loves the soft, strangled little gasps that fall from his lover’s lips as he toys with that oversensitised opening.
Kissing the inside of Gale’s thigh, Astarion slides a single digit into him. Gale, predictably, groans and pushes half-heartedly at Astarion’s head.
“Menace,” he says, without heat. Astarion adds a second finger. It goes in so damned easy; of course it does. Astarion had just spent the past hour taking Gale in at least five different positions, on no less than three surfaces of their bedroom. Four, if he decides to count the wall.
“Needy little pup,” Astarion coos, smiling as those soft, slick walls part for him with barely any resistance. Gale aims a half-hearted glare down at him.
“That’s biologically incorrect,” Gale tells him. “Given the rather rambunctious nature of our coupling, as well as my … ah, position as the … receiver—at least for today, it stands to reason that the elasticity of my—”
He cuts himself off with a choked gasp as Astarion crooks his fingers playfully and murmurs, “I love when you go all nerdy to me in bed.”
He finds that he actually means it. Astarion loves every bit of Gale. Especially the parts of him that can’t quite shut up, even when he’s being speared open on two fingers. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Kids these days,” Gale mutters, even though Astarion is over two hundred years young. Astarion bites him on the inside of the leg.
“Ow!”
Astarion bites him again, this time with a hint of fang. A small droplet of blood spills into his mouth, the taste finer than the richest nectar in all the lands. Groaning, Astarion ruts against the bed slightly and begins to move his fingers.
The sound that they make is obscene. Gale is still soaked, a thin trail of pearlescent white dribbling down the cleft of his arse as Astarion wriggles his fingers even more.
The man is always so proper. Astarion loves messing him up.
“You can,” Gale says, his voice strained. Astarion cocks his head.
“My, my,” he says. “Losing your words already?”
Gale huffs out a laugh, though it comes out slightly choked as Astarion adds a third finger. “I meant that you may feed, if you wish.”
Astarion doesn’t need to be told twice, though regular feedings after two hundred years of starvation have him far less desperate for blood. When he bites into Gale’s thigh once more, it’s not in fevered frenzy. Rather, he laps at the leaking wound slowly, his tongue lazily lavishing over the tiny punctures as he continues to finger Gale.
He can hear the moment Gale’s short, tired pants turn into moans; the way his breath hitches at the very end, the low rumble of a languorous groan making its way out of his chest. His fingers begin to curl up in the sheets, as do his toes. His hips begin lifting up slightly to meet Astarion’s touch, only to stutter back down abruptly. Almost as though he is somehow afraid of taking his pleasure.
Determined, Astarion adds a fourth finger. Gale’s cock dribbles beautifully, and Astarion briefly contemplates refocusing his attention on it instead.
But being inside Gale is so … warm. Open. Loose. Astarion kisses him on the inside of his thigh, right over where blood is beginning to clot near the puncture wound.
“Can you take more?” Astarion whispers. Gale looks down at him, eyes glazed, hair damp from sweat and hanging wild around his head.
“If you’re saying what I think you are saying,” he starts, before stopping short. His lips curve up into a smile; a slow, tender one that warms Astarion’s cold undead heart.
“I trust you,” he says simply, and that’s as good a confirmation as any. Pressing his lips once more to trembling flesh, Astarion nudges his thumb into Gale’s opening. This time, he can feel Gale tighten around his hand, shaking and uncertain as Astarion slowly works a fist in.
There’s resistance. Of course there is. His hand doesn’t go in as easily as his fingers do. Gale is still bound by the limits of his fragile, mortal body. Astarion goes slow—the last thing he wants to do is hurt him.
In the end, it doesn’t take long. Astarion is generous with the lube, which he dribbles plentifully over where his hand joins up with Gale’s trembling entrance. When not wielding the bottle, he rubs his palm against the round paunch of Gale’s soft, furred stomach, whispering sweet nothings and praising him for being so patient, so well behaved.
“You’re incredible,” Astarion whispers; in part captivated from the way Gale is stretched sumptuously around his entire hand, in part awestruck from how terribly he has fallen for this greying, dorky wizard. “Utterly gorgeous, darling.”
Gale mumbles something in response. His eyes are slightly glazed, a dreamy smile on his face as his cock, hard and aching, leaks steadily onto his stomach.
“How do you feel?” he asks. Gale blinks, utterly blissed out.
“Full,” he mumbles eventually. “Good.”
It is rare that Astarion sees this brilliant man reduced to monosyllabic words. Though as flattering as it may be, Astarion is ever so grateful that such an occurrence is fleeting. Nothing gets him out of his head better than the incessant prattle of an overzealous archmage.
“I’m going to move now,” Astarion says, and Gale’s eyes fly open.
“Wait—”
It’s too late. He has already begun to uncurl his fingers. The tip of a singular digit presses against Gale’s swollen prostate, and before Astarion can freeze, Gale is grabbing his wrist, his eyes wide and apologetic as he unceremoniously spends himself, completely untouched.
“I’m sorry,” Gale garbles out, his thighs trembling, his hole clenching uncontrollably around the large intrusion. “I – I was on edge the whole time, but I was loath to interrupt you – I couldn’t stop it—”
Astarion blinks, shocked.
“Gale,” he says finally, almost faintly. “That might be the single most attractive thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You jest,” Gale mumbles, dragging a hand through the sticky mess on his stomach. “I’m sure you have had better than an old man like me.”
“Now that’s just insulting,” Astarion teases. “If you’re old, then what does that make me?”
In truth, he adores Gale for how uninhibited he is. He’s honest, even when in bed, and while the man is unmistakably skilled, he is also blindingly passionate and painfully attentive. Gale revels in every act he commits with Astarion, an unbridled enthusiasm that almost proves to be a tether for his wandering mind.
“Prehistoric,” Gale answers promptly, cheekily, before wincing. “Ah. I – could I trouble you to remove your – uh, hand? I migh—”
Wide-eyed and innocent, Astarion begins to move his hand. It pulls a delicious sound from Gale, a mix between a keening whine and a strangled howl. It’s a sound that is for Astarion’s ears, and his alone.
“Love,” Gale says, sounding faint. “I – Gods. I can’t—”
“For me?” Astarion whispers. He adores seeing this prim man fall to pieces before him. Gale gasps, his eyes wide.
Then, a singular, pained nod.
“I trust you,” he says again, and Astarion grins widely, before taking one of his lover’s spent, heavy balls into his mouth.
Gale squirms, overstimulated and oversensitised. His cheeks are flushed, his brow beading with sweat as he white-knuckles the sheets. Astarion works his fist steadily, one hand toying with Gale’s limp prick, the other cradled firmly within the warm heat of his lover, all whilst he laps and suckles enthusiastically.
Gale groans and shudders in delirious pleasure, his eyes glazed and his body trembling as his hips thrust upwards shallowly. He’s not hard, not anymore, but judging by the incoherent stream of babble that’s spilling from his bitten lips, he’s enjoying himself plenty.
Then, Gale gasps and arches his back. For a second, Astarion wonders if he is about to come a third time. Except—the skin beneath his face grows warm.
Shocked, Astarion looks up, his eyes meeting mortified, wide ones as Gale tries frantically to scramble for his clothing, or perhaps the quilt.
“Astarion,” Gale tries, scrambling to sit up, but Astarion isn’t listening, because—Gods. He’s thought he’s seen all there is to see. But nothing is hotter than the sight of Gale Dekarios, revered archmage and respected academic, wetting himself uncontrollably as he tries, desperately, to hide his flushed face.
“Don’t move,” Astarion commands, and Gale freezes with a muted whimper. His cock continues to spurt, a light stream of liquid that trickles down his belly and onto the sheets beneath them. It washes away the come staining his skin and soaks into his chest hair. Glistening droplets catch on his beard, glistening off his long lashes and dripping from the tips of his mussed hair.
He whimpers as Astarion grabs his prick, half-hard and still leaking piss. It twitches in his hand, spilling over his fist. Gale trembles, exhaling slowly as the stream trickles to a stop.
A slow blink, eyes wide, body frozen in probable panic. Astarion doesn’t like seeing his lover in distress.
“Perfect,” he breathes, his gaze meaningful, and Gale smiles hesitantly, evidently relieved. He raises a hand, presumably to cast Prestidigitation, only for Astarion to stop him by entwining their fingers together.
“Let me,” he says, and picks up his discarded shirt from the ground. It’s not going to do much, of course, and Gale will almost definitely need to use magic to clean up their bed after. For now, however, all that really matters to him is the way Gale’s shoulders relax as Astarion begins to tenderly wipe away the mess soaking into his skin, the way his eyes soften with each warm kiss that Astarion presses to his body.
Perhaps, it’s not quite about Gale’s refractory period after all.
For beyond the sensuality that lies between their shared sheets, there exists an undercurrent of mutual trust and affection that colors their every act, that strips him of doubt and, in place, allows him to revel, unhindered, in what can only be described as love.
And that, Astarion thinks, is more than priceless.